


I Have You

by Introvertedfangirl



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crying Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, T for curses whoops, Tenderness, but at the end but it's here i promise, soft, their gay and the writers can fight me on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29147424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Introvertedfangirl/pseuds/Introvertedfangirl
Summary: Jaskier has had nightmares for a long time, it's about time someone has told him it's ok.Basically this whole fic is about Jaskier having nightmares and wanting to hide that from Geralt, because vulnerability, umm we don't know her, especially Jaskier. Of course though,  how can you hide anything from a Witcher? Obviously  Geralt finds out eventually. Softness and tenderness ensues I promise ;).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 186





	I Have You

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy reaaddding. It's always at the weirdest times that the inspiration for a fic hits me. Usually just about the time I should have done my homework :). But hey... writing waits for no woman ( or man).

Often in the night, Jaskier wakes with the night wind pressed against his skin, cool where the sweat from a night terror rolls from the downy mess of brown curling by his forehead. It is on these nights, that he thanks the gods he has always been what one might call, a careful waker. Even with his more troublesome and darker dreams, the ones that make his heart flutter at what must be a dangerous rate for a human at least, he has always been able to wake up still and without outcry.

Honestly, it probably isn’t the best thing and if anything it points to his fucked-up childhood. Every time he had had anything even resembling a bad dream, both his mother and father simply ignored the problem. The first time it had happened Jaskier had made it into his parents bedroom. The second time, the door was locked. Now lying in the bedroll next to Geralt, Jaskier is completely awake, and despite the remaining wispy tendrils of his nightmare, his breath is paced, careful.

In waking he had nearly jolted up. This particular unconscious habit is something he still unfortunately had less control of over to this day. Per usual, Jaskier is not quite sure as to why he’s even had a nightmare. He and Geralt have been traveling for days now, undisturbed and mostly with a settled air of peaceability and near companionship between them. Although Geralt might argue on the companionship bit, hence the “near.”

So to put it frankly, perhaps there truly is something wrong with him. What grown man takes the traumas of childhood with him into young adulthood? One would imagine that after all these years the panic would have stopped, the uncontrollable fear that came with giving into the night.

And maybe it’s all ridiculous, but it’s a part of him, something embedded into who he is. Sometimes though, the old fears ease and there are nights that go by so smoothly, so still and tranquilly, that one would be able to hear a pin drop. But these are false balms to his tired soul, and when darker things come to plague him in the night, he wakes, he is still, he suppresses it .

*******

One-night Jaskier has one of the worst nightmares he has had so far. Occasionally, the bard’s dreams can feel more premonition than dream, and this is one of those nights. This time when he wakes, his face is warm, burning almost. He is lying flat on his back and for the first time in over 15 years his breathing is neither paced nor steady. Instead, it is coming quickly, rushing into his lungs in tiny movements and then out again. It all burns terribly.

For a brief moment, he wonders why his face is so heated. Perhaps he has succumbed to some illness and is now fevered? He is put off of this notion though when his vision, still hazy from sleep, is able to place the glowing red orange roar of a well stoked fire. Dark brick stacks up to the ceiling to meet an old but well working flue. There is a soft sensation flush against the curve of his back… _and oh_. He is at an inn.

By now his breaths have begun to slow down to their usually well-paced out rhythm. _Gods for a moment there I felt like I might die._ This is the truth, for even now as the bard gathers himself, the slow rise of his ribcage still elicits some small discomfort. To lay there though and not have to return to the corners of his unconscious mind, is enough right now to somewhat soothe his unstable mind.

A movement stirs beside him and Jaskier suddenly realizes that he is not the only one awake, and since he does not remember entertaining the attention of a certain sort the night before, he can only assume that it is his witcher, Geralt, lying next to him. This is confirmed when a voice so low he could almost pretend he does not hear it, sounds above him. Apparently, Geralt had chosen not to go to sleep, for from the sound of his voice he is not lying next to Jaskier he is sitting above him. And the gods be damned, because if he is sitting next to him that means he witnessed everything that just occurred. Stirring him away from these thoughts again, is the continued sound of Geralt’s voice directed at him.

“Bard,” then a little louder, “Jaskier what happened?”

He tenses at this question, and the sudden urge to return to the sporadic and flighty breathing of moments before, is pressed to overtake him. He _must not_ be a burden, for to have one of his few friends on the Continent look at him through different eyes; he could not bear it.

All things considered, it does not require too much effort on his part to adopt a sleep addled tone, attempting to lead what he assumes to be Geralt’s inquiring eyes away from his prone form. Almost lazily, his tongue flicks over his bottom lip to press gently upwards against hard teeth nervously.

“Whatever can you mean Geralt, adding a quirk of his eyebrow for further effect, he continues on, “You mustn’t worry about little ol’ me. Go back to sleep darling.”

Exaggerating a yawn and stretching his arm back, Jaskier turns over from Geralt, curling away from the other man as if to gently signify the end of their conversation. Clearly Geralt is of a different opinion though, and from his place on the bed, Jaskier hears a soft sigh from overhead. There is a shifting of the shared mattress and Geralt has moved so that he is now sitting a bit closer to Jaskier. The younger man cannot tell what he is doing, so he holds in a bated breath. Then suddenly there is a hand, albeit hesitant, but a hand resting softly on his forehead.

For a moment it sits there unmoving, and then a thumb that is somehow uncharacteristically soft yet rough at the same time, begins to stroke circles there, sliding up into his hairline. Jaskier is frozen, he does not know how to respond.

“G-geralt what are you doing,” is all he manages to stutter out.

Quietly the other man responds, a thoughtful intonation in his words as if it is the most obvious thing in the world

“It’s what you do when I have”, he pauses as if uncertain finishing with confidence, “a night terror”

Though Jaskier cannot see, a look akin to sadness mixed with guilt crosses the witcher’s face. Like an afterthought he murmurs. “How could I not have realized that you have them too.”

With a sigh Jaskier understands that the jig is up, and he is somewhat surprised with the amount of relief that comes with this knowledge. Exhaling again, he turns to face Geralt, but he must miscalculate how close the other man is. When he turns, his head is laying on the other man’s thigh. He isn’t _not_ pleased about it. Pressing his eyes closed, he lets the words fall from his lips. The ones that he fears that if he says them out loud, they may come true, but he cannot keep it inside any longer.

“You died Geralt. You bloody fucking died, and it was my fault. Completely and utterly my fault.

His voice is hoarse at the end of this admittance, and though he is close to tears, there is still something holding him back from letting them fall. Whether it be shame or simple inability he is not sure.

The soft caresses of his forehead have ceased now. It seems as if Geralt is looking for the words to comfort Jaskier, and honestly if the other man cannot find them, he will not blame him. Emotions for Geralt have never been a favorite and Jaskier cannot fault him for this. With how the world has treated the witcher, emotions are a dangerous thing.

“Jask…..” That rendering of his name rolls of the witcher’s tongue with so much ease.

“Jask.” There it is again, and Jaskier is aware of the fact that he is trembling slightly with the effort of holding his grief in. A large hand comes to rest at the small of his back and another perches once again at his head. This time though, Geralt moves his hand away from Jaskier’s forehead and instead cards his slender fingers through that mop of brown hair: more carefully than anyone has before him.

“I have you”.

A tear rolls down Jaskier’s cheek.

“I have you.” He is sobbing in earnest now.

“I have you.” Geralt presses a dry kiss to a warm shoulder, squeezing it tenderly.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! I hope you enjoyed reading this. It was a bit of a sporadic thing but I enjoyed writing it. Hopefully it was soft enough *fingers crossed*. Comments and Kudos are always appreciated and enjoyed


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